“You’re my friend,” I say finally. The simplicity of the words sounds false, like a chord struck wrong on a piano. I wonder if he can hear it.
Dean narrows his eyes for a second, and opens his mouth like he is going to say something. He reconsiders and then takes a breath. But before he can speak—
“Okay,” Harlow’s voice cuts in. “So tomorrow’s supply run is going to be focused on finding more canned goods to save us from having to eat these little, tiny”—Harlow plops down on the log across from Dean and stabs a sausage with her fork, holding it up to the glow—“penises,” she says at last.
Dean purses his lips as he glances down at my plate. “I hadn’t thought of them like that,” he whispers, his voice low.
“You wondered why I skipped dinner?” I ask.
Dean stabs the sausages with my fork and holds them out to me. “Hey. Food is food.” He pops them into his mouth and smiles.
Harlow makes a face. “It’s not the shape that gets me. It’s the ‘meat product’ ingredient on the label. What is that exactly?”
“It’s delicious, is what it is,” Dean replies.
Harlow lowers her fork and regards me across the fire.
“Vanessa inside?” she asks. I nod. This was as close to closure as we were ever going to get.
We good? it asks.
My nod is a quiet acceptance of the tenuous truce. We’re good.
Harlow nods and tosses another stick into the flames. The conversation dies, the air around us filling up with unsaid things.
Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I filled that void with the truth that fills my chest to the brim. What would happen if I opened my mouth and told them both. I wonder what kind of gasoline that would pour over the fire between us.
“Tomorrow. I’ll need you to take lead,” Harlow says to Dean.
“I’m out of the doghouse? Just like that?” he teases.
“If you weren’t the best shot in the compound, you wouldn’t be leaving this place for a month. But we’ve got orders, and I need you having my back.” Her gaze is ruthless as she glares at him.
“Baby, I’ll have whatever side of you I can get,” Dean drawls, a smirk curling up at the corner of his lips.
“I’m serious,” she bites out, and Dean’s smile freezes. He straightens, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m sorry,” he says. A sergeant to his commander.
The thunder rolls closer, and a bolt of white-hot lightning illuminates the horizon.
She looks to me, then back to Dean. “You two scared the shit out of me. I saw that Vessel, and—”
“Harlow,” Dean cuts in. He leans forward more. “I’m sorry.” A boyfriend to his girlfriend.
Harlow’s glare softens. “I want to stay mad at you.”
“I know. It’s the worst, right?” His coy grin is back, his eyes raking over her.
Welp. That’s my cue.
I stand as Dean gives me a nod, and Harlow walks around the fire and chucks her Vienna sausage at Dean’s head. He catches it in his mouth.
I turn, hustling into the shadows at the sound of Harlow’s shrieking laugh as Dean pulls her into his lap. They were always that way. Harlow is obsidian—sharp and cool. Dean is the fire.
“Next time I’ll know better. I won’t bring her out,” he whispers. I hear it, just over the hissing of the log cracking and falling to pieces in the flames.
I halt, the words like weights on my feet.
I won’t bring her. Like I’m a kid. Like I need his protection. Like I can’t handle myself.
I can’t even get mad at him for thinking that. For treating me like I need protection.
Because I do.
I froze, and it almost cost us both our lives.
Their laughter falls silent as I walk inside, toeing off my shoes by the front door. I creep down the hallway, stopping for a moment to check on Vanessa. She is sprawled out on her bed, her headphones still in. I wrap them up and pull the duvet over her shoulders.
Out of habit, I glance out the window above my bed. Harlow’s fingers are tangled in Dean’s hair as she twists in his lap. I duck, heat rising in my cheeks as I put my head on the pillow and press the heels of my hands to my eyes.
My tears taste like the ocean.
It’s not that I don’t dream. I dream a lot. But they’ve always been shallow—a tide pool of memories and bits of shimmery thoughts and remnants of a boy’s smile or a weird line I heard in a movie.
But this feels different.
This is a memory, soaked in sadness and thick with the feel of sunscreen and salt.
I’m on the ocean, but the fear that usually coats the back of my throat is gone.
I’m on the boat, the one we had when we were kids—a small speedboat my father called the Batmobile.
It didn’t make sense, and Harlow told him as much, but he didn’t care. It was a small boat—so small that whenever we took it out of the marina and into the harbor, the slightest wave would send us all flying. We spent many summer days on that boat, eating melted peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and pushing each other off the bow into the water.
I’d let the water pull me down until the sunlight was nothing but a dappled promise lofted above my head like the underside of a cathedral’s belly. The water was quiet, a place where my thoughts drifted alongside me like my sun-lightened hair. The ocean was laughter ringing off the surface.
In the dream I feel the water coursing over my skin, coaxing the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs. Back and forth, in and out.
Swish, swish. Swish, swish.
Somehow, this dream pulled me back to a time when the water wasn’t a thing of nightmares. Back when it was home.
Swish . . . thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
My eyes fly open, and I’m back in my bed.
I roll over in bed and pull the pillow over my head, cursing the proximity of my bedroom to Harlow’s. Things are bad enough without me having to hear her and Dean.
Thump thump thump.
I throw the pillow down, irritation boiling in my gut as I sit up, ready to scream at them both for waking me up in this totally disgusting way.
But I freeze at the sight in front of me.
Vanessa is at the foot of my bed, her dark hair falling over her shoulders as she hits her head softly on the wall. Her hands are carved like claws, her nightshirt swishing around her thighs. I watch her, swallowing my scream back down.
Thump thump thump.
She’s sleepwalking again.
“Nessa,” I say, sliding out from under the covers as smoothly as I can. We know all the rules about sleepwalking and night terrors by now. Don’t startle them awake. Don’t yell. Just gently try and guide the person back to bed, and usually muscle memory takes over.
I reach for Nessa’s hand, but she yanks away with startling force without breaking the rhythm of her head on the wall.
“Vanessa,” I say louder, grabbing her hand. She spins around and drops to her knees on my bed, bouncing once before going still.
“Let’s go back to bed,” I whisper, and she looks straight at me.
I freeze, wondering for a moment if she’s woken up. She tilts her head, studying me with those unseeing eyes, and I fight the urge to scream for Harlow.
“The silver whole brings the storm to the sea, the mirror on velvet brings the ships to their knees,” she says quietly.
My stomach plummets, and angry tears spring up in my eyes. I bite them back and clench my teeth together so hard that I wonder if the grinding sound alone will wake Harlow and Dean. I put my hands on Vanessa’s shoulders.
“The black veins lead to the heart,” she says.
Her hands find mine then, like she’s begging me to listen, even though she’s not awake.
“Follow the black veins. Home will lead you to it.”
I don’t know who chose her for this. I spent my life going to church and believing in a creator with a grand plan. But I can’t imagi
ne why the fate of the whole world has to rest on my sister’s shoulders. My sister, whose only concern up until two years ago was how to best keep her leotard from riding up during her routines. My sister, who hasn’t even kissed anyone yet.
The fact that all this seems pointless—as well as painful—just stirs the anger in my gut. I shake her shoulders to get her to stop saying nonsense.
“Wake up,” I order.
I used to think that Anne de Graaf was the coolest figure in history—a rebel, a trailblazer.
But in these moments, looking into Vanessa’s glazed eyes . . . I hate her more than I’ve ever hated anyone.
Leave her alone. You’ve already destroyed the world. Leave this girl alone.
“Vanessa,” I bark, and it startles her. Rules be damned—these aren’t normal nightmares. She blinks once. Twice. Then she’s awake.
“Go back to bed,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone. She looks around, realization slinking over her expression as she climbs back into her bed. Within ten seconds, she’s asleep again.
Everything is still, save the rain pelting the window. Outside, the fire pits are dark. I pull the notebook out from under my mattress and scribble the words in it, pushing so hard that the pen tears through the paper. I close it and toss it aside before curling back up into bed.
But I can’t sleep.
There is this feeling, this heaviness that coats the air with dread.
It’s a feeling I’ve worn often, and learned to wear well. I had long since stopped listening to it.
Something is wrong.
I’ve been feeling that since I was seven. Something is wrong.
It’s a knot in my stomach that only medication could ease. I stopped the meds before the world fell, and I wasn’t about to add one more thing to the list of needs around here. I don’t even know if Harlow would be able to find any.
It’s the apocalypse. I assume everyone has an anxiety issue.
I try to go back to sleep. I try to tell myself that it is just dread.
But I can’t.
I slink out from under the covers and creep down the hallway. I’m wearing an old T-shirt from my single, ill-fated season of soccer from four years ago. It still fits, and the team name, “GRASS-KICKERS,” is emblazoned on the front—and I’m sporting some of Harlow’s old cheer shorts with “U WISH” stamped in glitter paint across the butt. It’s not my best look, but they’re comfortable, and that’s all I care about.
Lightning flashes, adding to the edge of panic. I push Harlow’s door open, stopping at the sight of her curled up with Dean in the covers, both asleep.
His hand rests possessively around her waist, and she has a palm on his bare, muscled stomach. I turn away. I am not about to wake them.
I go to the kitchen, pulling a water bottle from under the counter and marking it on the sheet of paper nailed to the wall. We have to keep track of what we take. Outside, I see the perimeter wall from the kitchen window, with three guards stationed at the overlook.
I recognize the navy windbreaker. Kyle. He stands near Davis and Elk, two guards with swords strapped across their backs.
I take a deep pull from the water bottle, trying to force the cool liquid to rinse the dread from my throat as I shut my eyes.
I lean over the kitchen sink, forcing myself to swallow.
I don’t know what makes me look up just at that moment.
But I see Kyle fall, the shouts landing seconds after. Someone—something—beyond the wall just took him down. A scream sounds through the night, and the loud pop of a grenade. I drop to the floor, the water bottle spilling over the cracked kitchen tile.
I force myself to breathe as the image of Kyle falling replays in my mind on a loop. I have to do something.
I shoot up, careening down the hall as I scream Harlow’s name.
Someone is coming. Something is coming.
And I don’t know which one is worse.
I crash into the doorframe, and Harlow is already up, her walkie-talkie screeching out as the men at the wall call to her.
Dean tosses her blade to her, and she strings it over her back in one fluid movement, seamlessly pulling up her dark jeans and slipping her unlaced combat boots on.
Vanessa is in my doorway then, her eyes wide as she peers over my shoulder through the window. People are running down the street, armed and ready.
“Shit,” she whispers, understanding crossing her face. She disappears, and I know she is getting ready.
We’ve prepared for this. We’ve survived it before. If it is a rogue band of Vessels, we’ll cut them down. If it is a small group of Runners looking for Curseclean, we’ll cut them down, too.
And if it’s the Vessels we’ve been fearing? a voice in my head asks, and terror trickles down the back of my neck. I shove the bubbling dread down as I run to my room.
The Palisade isn’t going to fall. We won’t let it.
I pull my shoes on before tying my hair back. I grab my mirrored bands and secure them to my wrists and forearms. I think for a second, and drop to my knees near the bed. I grab the Bordeaux and the notebook, and throw them in a fanny pack that I strap to my stomach under my sweatshirt. Harlow and Dean leave her room, and I follow. Vanessa is behind me, a black hoodie pulled over her head.
Harlow turns. “Charlotte, stay here.”
I blanch. The fear in my chest is a knotted vine, but I can’t just stay and wait. I would rather face it. Vanessa and I protest at the same time.
“Hey, I don’t need a babysitter, Harlow! Are you kidding me?” Vanessa cries.
“At least let me help Kyle. I saw him fall, Harlow—” I start, but she whirls on us, her eyes sharp.
“Get Vanessa to the bunker and stay there. That’s an order. Both of you.”
I shoot a pleading glance to Dean, but his expression is taut as he checks his knives and mirrored straps. This is a battle now. Any trace of the silly Dean is wiped away, and he isn’t about to disagree with his commander.
They leave, not bothering to close the door behind them. A swell of chaos rips across the night, and I bite back the terror that ripples over me in response. I turn to my little sister, her dark eyes stark against her pale face.
There is defiance there, and I feel its twin spinning in my bones. I want to sprint out in the darkness—to show that I am more than the fear that chokes me.
But I stop, knowing that there is a good chance that I am not better than that. That Harlow is right to send me out of harm’s way.
A blast rings out and I duck, pulling Vanessa close to me.
An orange glow slips in through the open door, and we look out the window.
My heart staggers to a standstill as the realization washes over me. They’ve blown the front gate over.
Runners never risk attacking an armed settlement, and there are plenty of drifting people to keep the Vessels fed.
There was no logical reason for the attack. Except—
I turn to look at Vanessa, her gaze reflecting the light as she stares out the front door.
Unless they know she’s the Chosen One.
She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her time to think. I wrap her frozen fingers in mine and pull, yanking her behind me as we run through the house. I snatch a blindfold and a mirror off the back counter, and then we barrel out the back door. The rain is lighter, more of a misting than an actual rainfall. Still, I’m soaked in seconds.
I give the blindfold to Vanessa. She starts to argue, but I glare over my shoulder. “Now.”
Fear overtakes her irritation, and she puts it on.
The bunker is along the edge of the perimeter, three houses from us. If we stay low, I can get her there. I can get her safe. We slip through the backyard, the wet grass whipping across my shins. I chance a glance at the fence. Figures wreathed in shadow slide through the opening, and the ring of blades sounds through the night. Shouts echo, and I wonder which voices belong to Harlow. To Dean.
My stomach tightens at the th
ought.
I’ll get Vanessa to safety, and then I’ll go back. I can help.
I hold the mirror out in front of me as Vanessa and I sprint along the edge of the back fence, ignoring another burst of orange light that blows up the night. Ignoring the screams that ripple through the air.
“Charlotte, we can’t just hide,” Vanessa whispers, her breathing ragged, though I can’t tell if it’s from the sprint or the sobs she’s holding back.
My hand tightens on hers as we follow the cement water run. “We will listen to Harlow, Vanessa,” I hiss over my shoulder. By the time I get her to the bunker and in the arms of Marjorie and the others, she won’t have a say about me taking off to join the fight.
The wooden fence to my left ends, and the emptiness around us makes my chest tighten. We’re out in the open.
A wet rustle sounds from the side of Marjorie’s house, and I careen to a stop just in time to see a hooded figure step out from under the overhang. A black bandanna is tied around the lower half of her face. I look down, but not before I see the flash of a blade. Vanessa and I run, but another figure steps out from the shrubbery behind the fence, blocking our path.
I feel the edge of the blade at my back.
“Hello, sweetheart,” a deep, sensuous voice croons behind me.
Chapter 8
I TURN, MY EYES SHUT, VANESSA’S TREMBLING fingers clasped in my fist.
“Please,” the woman says. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have. Open your eyes.”
I’m not stupid. I keep my eyes shut. But she raises the blade and holds it to my throat, pressing the metal to my collarbone, and I don’t have a choice. She is right. She could kill me either way. I open my eyes and look to Vanessa—they’ve taken her blindfold off, too.
The woman’s yellow eyes meet mine, and my breath catches. It isn’t the startling shade of yellow against her pale skin that throws me. It’s not that she’s Xanthous, or that she presses the blade deeper against my skin as my jaw sets.
It’s that I recognize her.
Maddox Caine.
The most notorious Runner on this side of the Pacific. Here. In our compound.
Her jet hair is cropped short. A scar cuts through the edge of her right eyebrow, stark against the smoky coal she smudged around it. Her full lips curl up in a smile as she takes in my horrified look. Her nose turns up slightly at the end, giving her an elvish look.
Unchosen Page 8